


very good dreamers

by gonnafeelgood



Category: Bandom RPF, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-06
Updated: 2008-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonnafeelgood/pseuds/gonnafeelgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Pete doesn't believe in much, but Joe is a believer.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	very good dreamers

> Iggy Pop: Ronnie [Asherton], Scottie [Asherton], and Dave [Alexander] were very good dreamers, which is what my dusty Midwest is all about. The land that time forgot. Pete Townsend said something nice about that. He said that it must be really difficult for a bright person in the Midwest because you don't have a London or a New York City that can provide you with fresh input, that can rub up against you and rub off any illusions …  
>  \- _Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk_, p. 38

  
Pete may be manic, but he's not stupid. He knows what he looks like to the outside world. He's always known. People look at him and see the tattoos and the height and, sometimes, a quickbright smile. People who know him see a kid who grew up with money, who always had a place somewhere, the soccer star then the punk star then the Personality.

None of that is wrong. Other stuff is, though.

Pete's not as hopeful as people seem to want him to be. He's not a believer, not in much of anything except the screams of a crowd hitting him square in the face and the throb of a backbeat in his feet.

Joe, though. Joe's a believer.

Joe believes, first and foremost, in music. Not just in Arma Angelus or the other bands he's playing in at the ripe old age of 16 years. He's not just a believer in the way it makes him feel, like Pete, but in some real, genuine transformative power of the music. That belief is why Joe's upper-middle-class, normal parents let him travel around in a van with a bunch of dirty punks when he's fifteen years old. That belief is what makes Joe, awkward and dorky and kind of strange, one of the most strangely popular dudes in a very image-conscious scene.

It's his belief in Pete, implausible and impossible and alwaysalways there, that drives their friendship.

"Dude, your stalker is back," Tim shouts over the crowd, gesturing toward the door with his Scene Smirk firmly in place. Tim is not charmed by Joe, seems to feel his cred decreasing exponentially every time Joe's doofy grin and Star Wars t-shirts come within a ten-foot radius. And this is a 7 Angels 7 Plagues show, where cred is vital.

God, Pete is over cred.

"Shut up," Pete yells back, pulling a drink out of his bottle of water. Joe is bouncing on the balls of his feet, his awful bleach job covered with dark brown dye. His grin widens as he spots Pete and he waves big before gesturing toward the stage, Joe-speak for 'I'll see you in a few, I want to catch the end of this set.'

Pete shrugs, his very own scene posturing coming out for a second, before smiling a little and shaking his head. It's not like he's going anywhere.

*

"How's it going?" Joe has found him again, which wasn't that hard since Pete has barely moved. Tim has moved on, shaking his head as he saw Joe approach. Pete wasn't really sorry to see him go – he's been noticing lately that Tim's kind of a tool.

Pete shrugs, watching the push and pull of the crowd as fans for the other band are replaced in the front by the 7A7P fans. "They didn't suck."

Joe shakes his head, looking vaguely like a puppy. "Nah, they were good! I mean, their drummer needs to work on the pickup and their guitar player could seriously use some tuning help, but they were pretty decent!"

Pete grins a little, shaking his own head. Eternally appreciative. Joe hears the nuances, Pete'll give him that, but he misses the nuances that really matter. He doesn't see that the lead singer's haircut makes him look like a football player. He doesn't see that the bassist is a girl, for fuck's sake, and a girl wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of boots and a short skirt. Joe doesn't see the image that the band doesn't have, the thing that will keep them from ever playing anything more than church basements as opening acts for shittier bands with better hair.

"I'm gonna go …" Joe gestures toward the back door that leads out to the alley. "Want to come with?"

Pete raises his eyebrows and motions to the Xs at his wrist. Seriously?

"No, just. For the air, jackass. It's hot in here. Come talk with me, dude," Joe laughs, moving to push hair out of his face that is no longer there.

Pete shrugs again and pushes himself away from the wall.

*

"And, you know, it's like … Arma's kind of doing its own thing, right?" Joe is talking fast, gesturing with the hand that's not holding the bottle of water that he keeps taking quick swigs out of. "And it's cool and all, but I kind of want to do some shit that isn't me filling in or taking over for someone and hardcore is getting a little boring, so I was thinking maybe a new band?"

"Dude. Are you quitting?" Pete's voice may or may not crack a little at the end. It's just … he fought so hard to get Joe in. And Joe's good in Arma, he's great, and they need someone that strong on guitar and, okay, maybe he's also one of the only things keeping Pete sane(r) at this point.

"No!" Joe puts his hand out, resting it just above Pete's heart. His laugh barks out quickly. "I suck at this. No, I'm not quitting. I'm asking you to come with me."

Pete's breath comes out quickly in a relieved huff that he tries to cover with a laugh. "Come with you?"

Joe's hand is still just over Pete's heart, probably because he's now more than a little excited and easily distracted.

"Not leave Arma," Joe says earnestly, his head leaning in closer to Pete's. "Just, something else? In addition? Hell, Hurley plays in like seven bands. We can do two." He grins, looking kind of conspiratorial and hopeful at the same time.

"Arma and your pop-punk band?" Pete says, attempting for sardonic but probably just still sounding relieved.

"Sure," Joe grins. "C'mon, don't act like it doesn't sound like fun."

It does sound like fun. It sounds like the kind of fun that music used to be, the way it was for Pete when he was Joe's age. "I'll think about it."

"Seriously, man," Joe's smile spreads beyond his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He leans in even closer, his face now just inches from Pete's. His hair, Pete notices vaguely, smells sharp and fruity, like the conditioner you get with the dye packs in the grocery store. "This is the beginning of something. I can just … I can feel it."

"Yeah?" Pete leers a little, acting like he's going to pull Joe's hips against his. "I can feel it, too."

Joe barks a short, loud laugh before putting his hands on the back of Pete's head and pulling his face in. "Asshole," he says fondly before pressing his lips firmly to Pete's. He smiles, his own slow smile against Pete's lips as he holds his forehead against Pete's forehead for a beat. "Come on, I believe in this."

Of course he does.

*

Joe has always been affectionate, bucking every norm for dudes in the Midwest, dudes in the hardcore scene, hell most dudes in general. He's like a puppy, looping his arms around a waist or resting his head on a shoulder.

Pete reminds himself of this every time he thinks (increasingly and frustratingly often now) of the chaste press of lips against his in an alley behind a shitty church show. He reminds himself when he sees Joe's head leaning in toward Chris' at practice or when he sees him grinning big and wide and personal at Sean Beard at a show. He reminds himself every day and all it serves to do is piss him off.

Pete is prepared to hate Patrick just because of the light he causes in Joe's eyes the first time he talks about him.

"Seriously, he's just … he's unreal, Pete. He knows his shit and he apparently can play everything ever. He's mostly a drummer, though, and I know that we were talking about going with Mike, but … seriously, he could do other shit. Just … just meet him."

Pete is ready to hate Patrick because he knows that even when Joe actually did have a kind of hero-worship thing going on for Pete, he would never have had that look on his face. Even when Pete was his hero, which he definitely isn't anymore, Joe always had far too good of an ear for music. Pete is many things, but he's never been a musical genius.

And then he meets Patrick and, okay, he's ridiculous and he's proof positive that Joe knows what he's talking about when it comes to music and not at all when it comes to image, but Pete just can't say no to Joe, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning and talking and laughing with Patrick.

He could say no, he guesses. But his hard edges rub up against Joe enough already. He doesn't want to shape Joe into him, to take that belief and turn it something ugly.

Joe believes in the music, in Pete, and apparently in Patrick.

Pete doesn't believe in anything but it's okay because he's got a feeling that Joe has enough for the two of them. And maybe that means that Pete believes in Joe, but, well, that's something Pete can get behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Joe/Pete for [](http://sinsense.livejournal.com/profile)[**sinsense**](http://sinsense.livejournal.com/) from my [lyrics prompt meme](http://gonnafeelgood.livejournal.com/10137.html), PG, ~1500 words. Thanks to [](http://secrethappiness.livejournal.com/profile)[**secrethappiness**](http://secrethappiness.livejournal.com/) and [](http://annavtree.livejournal.com/profile)[**annavtree**](http://annavtree.livejournal.com/) for the betas.


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